Gifts and Curses
by Evilnor
Summary: Prompt fills for the DA2 Anders prompt group.  More to come eventually, maybe.  #11 "Management" Commander Surana discovers what disaster can happen when you let someone mismanage your estate.  The aftermath of a berserk Anders.
1. Good Luck

A/N: This is an exercise for the DA2 Anders prompt group. More such chapters possibly to follow, eventually, maybe.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age or Anders. More's the pity.

Prompt 1: Misguided

**"Good Luck"  
><strong>

* * *

><p>"Are you sure you've been here before?"<p>

"Well, I never said that. I just said I knew how to get there."

"We're lost, aren't we?"

"No, of course not! I mean, maybe. Probably. Definitely a little bit. I should probably shut up now."

"Now I know why Varric wished me 'good luck,'" Anders sighed, running a hand down his face. The plan, of course, had been to collect more herbs for his clinic. When the healer had mentioned what he needed to Varric the other day, it just so happened that Merrill had been in the room and claimed to know exactly what he was talking about and where to find it. To her credit, she was actually familiar with the herbs he needed, so something of her Keeper's wisdom must have sunk in over all these years. Unfortunately, for some reason this brought him to the conclusion that the other part of her assertion also had merit.

As the two mages wandered around listlessly in some random cave near Sundermount, it finally occurred to Anders how utterly wrong he had been.

"He always wishes me good luck. I thought he did it to be nice," the bubbly raven-haired elf piped from his side.

"Let me guess," Anders hazarded, "he tells you that every time you leave the Hanged Man to go home in the evening?"

Merrill's eyes went wide, their green irises catching and reflecting the light from his conjured spell wisp, making them seem all the more otherworldly, "How did you know?"

Anders rolled his eyes, "I must be psychic."

"Well, if you're psychic, why did you come with me, if you knew this was going to happen?" a hint of skepticism crept into her voice.

Anders dramatically placed his wrist to his forehead and intoned, "Oh, such a gift and a curse! One cannot turn on the second sight like a candle! To know the future at all times would drive a man mad!"

"Well, what about a woman?" Merrill asked guilelessly.

The blonde mage dropped his hand and resumed walking with a scowl, "It's called sarcasm, Merrill. You'd think you'd have learned the definition by now."

"Oh," the elf seemed to process this for a second, "So you can't really see the future, then?"

Anders sighed, "No."

"It's a shame, that," she mused, "It would have saved us both so much trouble, today."

"You're telling me."

"Yes, I suppose I am."

Anders was never sure if she was completely honest when she took such phrases literally, or if she was just _that_ good at mocking him. He strongly supposed it was the former, considering to what pains Varric went to explain simple colloquialisms to her. Anders was ever so thankful for the genial dwarf's endless patience when it came to Merrill and equally regretful, now, that he hadn't come along. To save himself more embarrassment, Anders shut his mouth and just kept walking.

It felt like they'd been walking in circles for the last few hours. All the walls in this dim, dank cave looked the same to Anders, the only light source the spell wisp floating above his shoulder. The darkness and silence weren't helping his claustrophobia much. If it wasn't for the fact he actually had company, and distractingly annoying company at that, he honestly doubted he would have made it twenty feet past the entrance. It seemed that every other cave in this part of the world had some sort of natural opening to let in light every few meters, but this one suspiciously had none to speak of. Therefore, it came as a surprise when they turned a corner just like all the rest to find torchlight in the distance.

Merrill squeaked in delight, "Oh, do you suppose it's a way out? What I wouldn't give for fresh air again!"

A twist in Anders' gut echoed the sentiment as the sprightly elf hared off to investigate the light more closely. "Hey, wait!" he called, picking his way as fast as he could in the dim light along the uneven floor, silently cursing how Merrill could be so surefooted in a situation like this. He guessed it must be an elf thing.

He finally caught up to her to witness her examining a doorway flanked on either side by a glowing torch. He sensed no magic at work, so surmised the construction was of dwarven make, to last so long in such an utterly abandoned passageway.

"Who do you suppose lives here?" Merril wondered aloud.

"Considering where we are, probably no one," Anders answered, "Unless this is another one of those slaver holding cells Fenris complains about." He ran a hand along the door, kicking up a thick layer of dust. "Anyway, it doesn't look like anyone's used it in quite awhile."

"Do you think it leads out, though?" the Dalish girl asked hopefully.

"Since going back the way we came hasn't done us any good, there's only one way to find out," he said, reaching for the hidden latch in its usual place for dwarven doors. The door ground open with mild protest, revealing a branching hallway which included a straight path to an open doorway framing what was unmistakably daylight.

"Oh, finally!" Merrill bubbled, starting to dash forward.

In his similar relief, it didn't occur to Anders until _after_ he heard the pressure plate scraping underneath Merrill's bare foot that these sorts of places were usually trapped.

Heavily.

"Get down!" Anders shouted as he dove, knocking Merril to the floor to avoid a volley of wicked crossbow bolts strategically angled in a crossed pattern to skewer anyone who dared approach the door. When it became apparent that the bolts wouldn't stop any time soon, he urged the shaken elf to follow him as he crawled further down the passage.

They finally stood when they left the range of the crossbow trap and heaved a sigh of relief. "So, let's be a little more careful from now on, shall we?" Anders admonished as Merrill nodded dutifully.

"So we should watch our feet, then, so we don't trip that next—" Anders felt a tiny bit of pressure against the ankle of his boot, and it briefly occurred to him for the second time that day how much he wished Varric was here.

"Trap," Merrill finished, her voice suddenly smaller than normal as the statues to either side of the hallway began to move in a deliberate fashion, as if they were stretching, flexing long-disused stone muscles.

"Merrill, remember what I said about being careful?"

"Yes?"

"Well, forget it. Run!"

They both sprinted for the exit, the grinding sounds of activated pressure plates and angry golems hot on their heels. Impossibly, Anders' long legs and years of practice carried him to the exit faster than the lanky elf, where he attempted to screech to a halt, grabbing a protruding tree root to steady himself against the side of the opening. Before him, where he expected there to be a ledge or something yawned only empty space, allowing a breathtaking view of the descending side of a mountain, but not much to break his fall, should he decide to get any closer.

Unfortunately, the choice wasn't up to him, as Merrill barreled clumsily into his back, knocking them both off the edge and out of the way of an incoming fireball.

Anders let out the most unmanly scream he'd ever made in his life as the two mages careened down the mountainside, taking the brunt of the impact for them when they finally hit the muddy slope and started rolling. They rolled for Maker knew how long before they finally stopped, battered and bruised at the bottom of the local gulley, every inch covered in mud.

As he tried desperately not to think of all the uncomfortable places the mud had progressed to and instead focused on how lucky he felt to be alive right now, his mind briefly flitted to his companion. "Merrill?" he asked, to see if the prone figure next to him was still alive.

Merrill moaned in response. Good, at least there was that.

"I'm never following your directions again."


	2. Smitten

Disclaimer: Dragon Age and its characters belong to Bioware, not me. I am saddened by this unfortunate fact.

Prompt #2: Cheeky

**Smitten**

* * *

><p>Ser Rylock was a unique templar. It took a woman of uncommon mentality who devoted herself to the Maker but forwent the powerful draw of the clergy to instead devote herself to the military arm of the world's dominant religion. When only women could hold the truest positions of power within the Chantry, and those women rarely if ever came face-to-face with physical danger, it didn't take a genius to figure out where a practical woman would place herself. When one does what one believes is right, especially when that one is a templar, practicality is very rarely an issue.<p>

The prudence of using one's Maker-given assets was not lost on Ser Rylock, however. Even possessing the zealotry common to most, if not all templars, she was not blind to certain expectations that many people held of her order. For one, in most countries, women didn't become templars. It wasn't as though there was any _law_ against it, as once existed with Orlesian Chevaliers, but it just wasn't common. This lack of numbers led to the common misconception among the general populace that they simply didn't exist or were specially-granted cases such as Meredith in Kirkwall. The times when she was underestimated, coupled with the tenacity that let her bend rules every now and again, was what made her so good at her job.

Rylock was a mage hunter.

She had long ago learned that just by virtue of her gender, she could access apostate safe houses and bypass heretic security. All it took was identifying an easily impressionable guard and a bat of her smoky eyelashes. Not that she couldn't hold her own with her sword and shield as well, but any advantage was one worth using, in her opinion, especially if the numbers didn't fall in her favor.

Today's hunt was an unusual one, to say the least. Her latest mark had decided to hole up in a brothel, of all places, and wasn't making much of a secret of himself, supposedly trading healing and other beneficial spells for room, board, and sexual favors. Perhaps he thought his mere location would be enough to stave off any potential templars? She almost had to laugh at the thought. There existed no shortage of templars who would deny their vows to visit such an establishment, but none who would risk being exposed as such, at least not in Andraste's birthplace. The mage could be surrounded by templars trying to keep their heads down and not even realize it.

He wasn't hard to spot as Ser Rylock walked in, either. She exchanged glances with the giant of a bouncer who eyed her weapons and very-not-templar-looking armor meaningfully before settling in to a table, ordering a drink that would remain untouched, and surreptitiously studying the mage. Lanky and tall, possibly not even fully grown yet, the blonde mage sat in a corner surrounded by people he seemed to be animatedly playing cards with while getting progressively drunk. He was unashamedly wearing some sort of unorthodox-style robe that exposed perhaps a little more flesh than it had any right to, but youth combined with life in the Circle didn't allow him to fill it very well. Every once in awhile, a prostitute of either persuasion would walk up to him and make some gesture of affection, from a playful toss of his ponytail, to unabashedly lounging in his lap as he lost at cards.

Rylock had seen his sketch before: a known Circle escapee, guilty of nothing more than defying Chantry doctrine by desiring his own freedom and attempting to do something about it. No blood magic on his record, no violent acts, just a charming, if slippery nature, and a lot of nerve. Harmless. By rights, this should be one of her easiest captures, if she played it right, but she had seen maleficarum turn at the drop of a hat. It wouldn't do well to be overconfident.

Eventually, the mage boy decided he was either too poor or too drunk to continue playing and bowed out of his card game, moving to a space by the bar to chat with one of the prostitutes there. Seeing her chance, Rylock moved in to occupy the other barstool next to him.

When merely sitting beside him didn't capture the drunken mage's attention, she cleared her throat instead. He jumped slightly, but it was his conversation partner who noticed her first, smiling knowingly and vacating her seat with whispered words of luck into his ear.

He didn't turn and focus on Rylock until she spoke. "So, are you a mage?" she asked innocently. As pickup lines went, it was fairly weak, but it wasn't as though this boy was winning any prizes, either. She could only hope that this boy didn't have any moral hang-ups about older women.

Obviously, he didn't.

He grinned broadly, his eyes lighting up, "That I am, my dear lady. Anders is my name, best healer in all of Ferelden and prettiest Circle escapee."

Maker, he wasn't even using an assumed name! He was either entirely too confident, just that stupid, or both. "What a coincidence," Rylock smiled her prettiest smile, "I'm a templar."

Anders blinked drunkenly, face almost sobering for a second as he tried to process the information, looking her up and down before settling on his own conclusion. Stereotypes worked in her favor yet again as the grin returned, and this time it was wolfish, "And I bet you're ready to smite me, aren't you?" His eyebrow raised in what he must have thought was an alluring manner, "Such a naughty mage, so far from the Tower . . ."

Rylock tried to keep the bile from rising in her throat and her hand from clenching on the pommel of her sword. "Oh, you have no idea."

He leaned closer to her, and she could smell the disgustingly cheap ale waft from his lips as he spoke, "Far be it from me to turn down a good smiting. I have the perfect place upstairs, and lucky for you, unlike the other people here, I believe all 'smitings' should be free."

He didn't know how close he was getting to a free smiting right at that moment. "Then lead the way," she managed to force out. Thank the Maker he was three sheets to the wind, otherwise none of this would've worked.

Anders didn't need to be told twice. He got several winks and nods from the prostitutes and regulars as he led Rylock to the back stairs and into a decrepit little room with barely enough floorspace to fit the furniture, let alone people. By the time she had closed the door behind her, Anders was already mostly undressed, giving her a full show of his pasty, white, and _skinny_ buttocks. Her face instantly turned red as she decided enough was enough and unsheathed her sword quietly.

"So, I don't think I caught your name earlier, lady templar," the mage boy cheekily stated, back still turned as he carefully removed his boots, "Would you mind telling me it, so I may remember by whom I'm smitten?"

"I don't think you'll have any problem remembering me," she answered. He finally turned around and went cross-eyed at the tip of her longsword leveled at his nose. "It's Ser Rylock."

And then she smote him.

Anders dropped like a sack of bricks, falling unconscious instantly, as she'd anticipated. Still with a prudish blush on her cheeks, she threw his "robes" on top of him and rolled him in a thin blanket before tossing him over her shoulder and carting him out the back door, past the guard she'd paid off hours before. A quick getaway was often essential, since there was no telling how attached people could become to their pet mages. She was lashing him to the back of her horse's saddle by the time he woke up, bleary and probably sporting a splitting headache.

He groaned, "Oh, blessed Andraste, you really _are_ a templar."

"That I am," Rylock confirmed. _Give the boy a prize._

"You know, I usually enjoy being around beautiful women, but for you I think I'll make an exception."

Anders spent the rest of his trip back to the Tower gagged.


	3. Safety in Darktown

Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age or the poor apostate Anders.

Prompt #3: Relief

**Safety in Darktown**

* * *

><p>Darktown both did and did not live up to its name. While the first part was certainly true, for regardless of whether it was day or night on the surface, it was always dark down here. One often needed some sort of artificial light, candle or lantern or otherwise to even carry the hope of finding their way down here. Which segued into the latter part of the earlier statement, as it was certainly less of a town than a mess of rat warrens large enough for humans to crawl into. Many of them kept similar sanitary habits as the four-legged furry vermin as well, but it was the geography of that stinking underbelly of Kirkwall as well as its residents that had kept him safe for so many years.<p>

And now that safety was threatened.

The clinic was empty, all the volunteers having left hours earlier, and Anders had just ushered the last patient out the door minutes ago. Business was much slower these days than when he'd first arrived over three years ago, with many of the Fereldan refugees having either moved up in the world or back home to rebuild. He found he could actually get a few hours of peace and quiet some nights without having to kick anyone out. This was such a night, but when he moved to the door to remove the lantern that hung outside it, he was stopped by the sound of unfamiliar voices.

Strange voices weren't an uncommon occurrence in Darktown, he told himself, but the timbre to these seemed artificial . . . or tinny. Cautiously, he opened his door the tiniest crack and was instantly grateful for the darkness of Darktown, for it kept his face hidden as utter fear and anger gripped his heart.

Two templars stood outside his door, speaking to some of the poor refugees scattered there. Those holy knights hardly ever ventured into the squalor down here, belying the Chantry's aims of helping the poor and needy wherever they may be. Not once had he ever seen a Sister or Brother down here, but on occasion their military arm would deign to soil their immaculate robes by sorting through the filth . . . if they had cause to think a mage was desperate enough to hide there.

Anders had to admit, he was probably the worst-kept secret in Kirkwall, considering how many people he'd healed and what company he kept, but still the templars hadn't expended much effort to actually find this lowly apostate. He liked to think he had Varric or Hawke to thank for paying bribes to the templars on his behalf, but it seemed that wasn't enough to dissuade the bucket-heads tonight. Maybe someone had decided that simple bribes weren't going to halt an investigation of a suspected hub of the Mage Underground?

Had he been betrayed? His mind immediately considered Fenris, that bastard ex-slave of an elf. He had half a mind to wring the elf's scrawny, tattooed neck most of the time, but much as the two men hated each other, Anders considered it unlikely he would have betrayed him now. If he'd been inclined to after Hawke's warnings to the contrary, he would have done so long ago. Aveline, perhaps? No. If she had finally decided to turn him in, she would have come herself with more than just two templars at her back. She wasn't the sort to take chances, after all, but Anders also knew she wouldn't act against him specifically unless he'd done something she considered unforgiveable. Peculiarly enough, surreptitiously smuggling mages out of the Gallows, while illegal, was something the Guard-Captain consistently decided to overlook, though she often turned apostates back over to the Circle. Anders was still at a loss as to how she could possibly live with herself.

Maybe it was all Hawke's influence, helping him once again. It really was amazing how much one could get away with when one did favors for so many . . . Oh Maker, he _really_ didn't need another reason to be indebted to Hawke. Or another reason to lie awake thinking of her when he really needed his rest.

Regardless, dwelling on who may or may not have ratted him out or . . . or really _anything_ about Hawke wasn't going to serve him well if he was caught in daydreams when those templars decided to turn around and take notice of him. Powerful as he was, one templar was easy. Two started to get tricky, especially if he was caught off-guard or there happened to be another patrol or two within shouting distance, though "shouting distance" was subjective in a labyrinth like Darktown.

Anders' grip tightened on his well-worn staff. He really wished he could hear what those bucket-heads said, but the helmets muffled their speech. As it was, he could barely make out the mumbled, non-committal replies from the refugees who dared answer them.

Justice rumbled inside the back of his head, yearning to be set free, to tear apart these armored invaders who dared threaten his own safety and the safety of those gathered around him. Through a supreme act of will, Anders held his vengeful spirit back and waited. If he struck preemptively, there was sure to be a battle, probably collateral damage (of his own property and of the people around him), and then more templars would come looking. No, he couldn't have that, especially not when the templars hadn't even glanced in his direction, in spite of the fact the only lantern in all of Darktown hung above his door.

One of the girls started shouting angrily at the armored pair, "How dare you come down here and ask us questions when we can't even ask about the family members you take away? You bastards took my sister! She was only ten, and I can't even visit her!" The young woman lunged for the shorter of the two and got a few solid blows in on his breastplate before another refugee stepped forward to bodily pull her away.

As the girl continued to hurl curses, her friend apologized for her. "I'm sorry, sers. Mages are a sore subject for her. Please, ask your questions somewhere else."

The shorter templar nodded and muttered something Anders didn't catch. Anders held his breath as the pair finally turned around to face his clinic door and took a step in his direction. _Here it comes,_ he thought to himself, tensing himself like a tiger ready to pounce as Justice bubbled a hairs' breadth below the surface, _There's no avoiding it now . . ._

"I've heard of some appleskates," a young voice piped up clearly from behind the templars, causing them to spin 180 degrees to address the speaker.

"Don't you mean 'apostates?'" one of them corrected.

The child shrugged. "Yeah, that. Come on, I'll show you. It's this way." Anders knew the boy well. He was a habitual liar, but provided no end of entertainment with his stories to the older generation who often found themselves in need of the healer's services. He strongly suspected entertainment was the reason he made up the stories in the first place. If the boy worked on the believability of his delivery, he could give Varric a run for his money some day.

As the boy led the templars off, Anders breathed a sigh of relief so heavy it was almost palpable. He had no doubt the boy would get those two templars lost in the sewers in no time.

Darktown had saved him once again, but this had been his closest call yet. Anders had no illusions that next time he might not be so lucky. As he quietly opened his door and snuffed out his lantern, he briefly considered where else he could go if the templars ever wised up to his hiding spot. The Hanged Man with Varric? Maybe tonight, since he doubted those templars wouldn't be back once they realized they'd been had, but it was too public to be a regular hideout. One of his Mage Underground connections? They barely trusted him as it was, so he doubted he could impose for long. Maybe . . . Hawke?

His heart leapt at the thought, but just as quickly, he squashed it. No, it would be too presumptuous. Sure, she'd flirted with him, but that hardly meant . . . did it? No, it was far too soon to consider such a thing. If he was going to even entertain the idea, even to stay in a guest room as a friend, she would have to make the first move.

He hoped she did it soon.


	4. Impossible Dreamer

Disclaimer: Bioware owns Dragon Age, not me. I'd have sooooo much more money if I did.

AN: Today's installment takes place during Awakening, inspired by party banter between Anders and Justice.

Prompt #4: Silence

**Impossible Dreamer**

* * *

><p>"Perhaps they wish the same as I: silence!"<p>

Anders was taken aback by the tone in Justice's voice. He'd said the sentence so vehemently that even the somewhat socially deprived mage could tell he'd struck a nerve and shut his mouth with an audible snap.

It was odd, honestly. In becoming a spirit healer, he had by necessity communicated with Fade spirits before, but they weren't stunning conversationalists and didn't appear to have much of an opinion about demons one way or another. Justice seemed unique in that regard, both that he seemed to have a low opinion of his darker brethren _and_ that he actually initiated conversation. Often eloquently, in fact. Other spirits just floated through the Fade, uncaring, sometimes speaking when spoken to, and Anders was positive the only reason some of them actually assisted him in healing was his charming nature. Anders had once thought that he was apathetic about a lot of things, but his own attitude didn't hold a candle to some of the "benevolent" Fade spirits.

Justice was different. Justice had a personality, uptight as it was. Justice _cared_ on some level. Justice was a _person_.

He also currently inhabited the corpse of an accomplished warrior.

And Anders had gone ahead and tried to pump him for information about a sensitive subject as if he was some emotionless font of knowledge, a talking book that he could ask anything he liked. Maker, he felt like he'd just poked a tiger with a stick to see how the stripes would change.

Anders took a moment to closely observe the corpse his spirit acquaintance currently inhabited as they followed their Commander around Amaranthine. He (though come to think of it, Anders wasn't certain if that was technically the right pronoun to use for something that only borrowed gender) wore that body almost as though he was born to it, apart from the fact it was dead, of course. He'd seen plenty of older humans and elves who occasionally twitched as Justice sometimes did while still, but overall he handled the body with fluidity and surprising grace. Not to mention his unstoppable presence on the battlefield, where the spirit moved with a deadly speed and efficiency that Oghren couldn't even come close to matching. If Anders wasn't always so absorbed in his spells, he might consider it morbidly fascinating to watch.

They had stopped outside a shop the Commander entered and stood in tense silence for a few minutes before it was finally broken. "You are staring, mage."

Justice's voice startled Anders out of his thoughts, "I'm sorry. I thought you didn't want to speak to me."

"I have decided that your foolish banter is preferable to your gaze with undeclared intent," the spirit's voice was flat, verging on an irritated growl.

"So you're not still mad about—"

"I did not say that."

"Oh," Anders considered quickly, recognizing that he needed to mollify the spirit, and finally decided on honesty for a change, "I was only observing how well you move, since you've never had an actual body before. Your eyes blink, you gesture with your hands when you talk, everything. It's almost like you've done it before."

"I have," Justice plainly replied.

Anders' eyes shot wide open and his jaw dropped, "What? But I thought you said you've never crossed the Veil before!" The implications of that revelation alone were immediately apparent to Anders. If a spirit of _justice_ had lied about _that_, what else could he have lied about? Maybe he already was—

"Don't be a fool," Justice snapped irritably, "I meant in the Fade."

The poor mage was now confused, "You possessed a dead body in the Fade?"

"No," the spirit seemed a hair's breadth from eloquently telling Anders to shut up again, but he continued, "I meant that I have emulated movements and mannerisms of mortals while I dwelt in the Fade. I would often observe mortal dreams, and it seemed right to blend in as a part of them. It required significantly more effort then, than it does now. I suspect the muscles of Kristoff's body . . . remember the motions and repeat them with little prompting."

These few sentences raised a plethora of questions in Anders' mind, but considering he didn't know how long Justice would deign to talk with him, he settled on the most interesting first. "So you've taken part in mortal dreams? I bet you're always the knight in shining armor saving the princess from the dragon." Anders barely restrained a chuckle.

"On occasion," Justice allowed, "Those would be situations in which a demon would torment a dreaming mortal in the form of a dragon. There were many other situations in which I would pass judgment or dispense justice, sometimes upon the dreamer and not their enemies. But in most, I was merely an observer."

"Aha! So you _do_ help mortals!" Anders clung to the positive of the statement, ignoring the darker implications, and almost felt as though he'd won something. "And here I thought you said we were beyond help."

"It was not my intent to help them," Justice denied, "merely to thwart the demon preying upon them at the time. In most cases, it is the mortal dreamer who attracts the demon to that part of the Fade. To truly help them would be to stop them from gathering the demons in the first place, which is impossible."

_Maybe if they didn't have bad things to dream about_ . . .

Anders failed to see how Justice's actions on behalf of dreamers still weren't helping, even in a small way. "I'm sure if the dreamers knew what you did for them, they would still be grateful." He felt the urge to pat the spirit on his armored shoulder, but thought better of it just as another thought struck him: "Have you ever helped me in my dreams, Justice?"

The desiccated face looked impossibly puzzled as he considered the question. "Perhaps," he answered after a few seconds of thought, "but I could not say for certain. All mortals appear the same to me. Even in your world, it is difficult for me to tell you apart."

"Even mages?" Anders couldn't help himself.

"Magic is one of the more obvious differences I am beginning to see."

"I meant in the Fade," the mage clarified.

Justice shrugged. Such a human action, and executed perfectly . . . Anders wondered how old the spirit was, that he'd gotten so much practice at such movements, or if they were more a product of Kristoff's muscle memory than he had implied. If that was the case, how much of Justice's personality was Kristoff's influence as well? How much had inhabiting a departed mortal's body changed him? Was he more . . . human now than he was in the Fade? Would that be a good thing, or a bad thing? Would the spirit even know if asked?

"I would assume you speak of the dreamers who are aware of their state. I have come across a few on occasion, but aside from their small manipulations of the Fade, they appear the same to me as any other mortal."

The mage was slightly disappointed for a reason he could not fathom, so he decided to ignore it for more lighthearted pursuits. "Well, what about the dreams themselves? Can you tell differences in those? Any . . . juicy stories you care to share?" Anders' lips quirked upwards in a mischievous smirk.

The spirit shook his head. "Even if such stories could be relevant, they would not be mine to divulge."

"Oh, you're no fun."

"I do not see why that should be something to aspire to," Justice confirmed, "To do so would seem a foolish desire."

Mildly frustrated, Anders crossed his arms and huffed in annoyance, but the comment reminded him of something Justice had mentioned earlier about spirits, demons, and the perversion of desires. What if Justice had some desires that could pervert him eventually? His awareness of spirits' desires implied that he _did _know something about them and probably even had a few of his own. Thoughts whirled in his head as gears in clockwork, and by the time their Commander exited the shop and rejoined them, Anders had his next question for the spirit ready.

"Are you saying that _you_ could become a demon, Justice?"


	5. Heretical Sun

Disclaimer: Dragon Age and its characters are not mine. Neither is the song included in this fic.

Prompt #5: Song fic

**Heretical Sun  
><strong>

* * *

><p>The singer was Rivaini, that much was obvious. Under the thick, dark hair that hung down in long, messy locks, colorful scarves, and the loose, baggy tunic cinched by a simple leather belt, it was impossible to tell what gender the entertainment for tonight belonged to. Varric assured that it was a woman, but Hawke was still skeptical. "She" wasn't a local sensation, otherwise Hawke was sure she would have heard of her before, especially if she played dives like the Hanged Man.<p>

Of course, Varric had heard of her. The dwarven scoundrel had heard of everyone.

"You once asked me why I like telling stories so much?" Varric had asked, "I gave you some answer along the lines of making sure it's my stories history remembers. But the reason I tell them instead of singing . . . it's because I can't sing like her."

Such high endorsement coming from Varric was usually reserved for when he told significantly exaggerated tales of Hawke's bravery, but for some reason she couldn't fathom, he sounded more sincere than she had ever seen him. Considering she'd been there when the dwarf put down his own brother, that was saying something. Varric's earnestness was more than enough to catch Hawke's attention, so it had taken little prodding to get her to come, her pet blonde apostate in tow.

They weren't the only ones here, either. The singer had come in on a ship with many Rivaini sailors aboard, and it seemed none of them had grown tired of her music yet, for the bar was so packed with dark hair and skin that Isabella for once looked more commonplace than Hawke did. In fact, if Isabella was actually musically inclined, Hawke could almost say she was looking into the pirate's future.

It was also obvious that the sailors were not here for regular rowdy tavern music. None of them had hit their drinks hard so far. They were here for her. This was going to be a _concert_, and by whatever gods they worshipped, they'd be sober for the beginning at least_._

"Maker, will you look at that thing?" Anders breathed into her ear so she could hear him over the din of the talkative sailors. Hawke had seen plenty of lutes (and variations thereupon) in her years in Kirkwall, but the monster that the singer pulled across her lap had more strings on it than any portable musical instrument had any business possessing. As she began strumming it, the vibrant sound from the instrument cut across the room like a slow bleed across a clean shirt, inevitable and inescapable. When the susurrus had settled, she started to sing.

Two men walked on the beach in the sun.  
>One left footprints, the other left none.<br>One was a man who no man obeys;  
>The other a god from the ancient days.<p>

The voice was deep, grizzled, and strident at the start, a low alto, if Varric was to be believed, aged and experienced, but indicated her gender no better than her appearance had. As she progressed in the verse, though, her incredible vocal range became apparent, verging on soprano before dropping to lower pitch than it had started. In its own way, the voice was mysteriously alluring and reminded Hawke no little bit of Flemeth, age, experience, and _meaning_ crafted into every syllable. Hawke couldn't help but listen intently to the song as it continued, barely noticing Anders tense beside her.

"Look," said the man, "how my kind make war.  
>I summoned you here to ask what for."<br>"For wealth or land," the god replies,  
>"For life, or freedom, or some king's lies."<p>

The sun is also a warrior.  
>Knowledge can also destroy.<br>Nor can the kindest will,  
>Preserve you from the kill.<br>Not all of wisdom brings joy.

At the chorus, most of the tavern's clientele picked up the tune, the predominantly male audience complimenting the singer's range, but not sharing it, before she started the next verse.

"Four of those five," the first one said,  
>Are not enough to appease the dead.<br>To save my world all this strife must cease,  
>So now I bid you to conjure peace."<br>The god said "Yes. Though it grieves me sore,  
>For I was also a god of war,<br>And I remember what you forget,  
>Four of those five you may still regret."<p>

More patrons joined in this chorus, and somewhere behind her, Hawke could swear she heard a lilting female voice pick up the tune from somewhere near the bar. Isabella. Of course she'd be here. Maybe she bought into the music-loving pirate stereotype after all.

He raised his voice and he raised his hand.  
>All strife stopped at the god's command.<br>No voice ventured an angry word,  
>No hand struck and no weapon stirred.<br>In time, the man called the old god back.  
>"Look," he cried, "what my people lack!<br>One lord rules over all the earth,  
>And we're all his slaves from the hour of birth."<p>

The chorus rang out again, yet more voices joining in this time. It was almost infectious, but Hawke didn't yet feel confident enough with the lyrics to join as the others did. Glancing to the side, she noticed even Varric had taken up the chant. He may even have been singing along under his breath the whole song.

"Look, he owns all wealth, and he owns all land,  
>We starve and die under his command.<br>He speaks the truth and he gives us peace,  
>But all that I hope for is our release."<br>The old god said, "This is what you willed.  
>For only thus is your wish fulfilled.<br>War's five sources I took away,  
>Yet I will give four of them back today."<p>

The sun is also a warrior.  
>Knowledge can also destroy.<br>Nor can the kindest will,  
>Preserve you from the kill.<br>Not all of wisdom brings joy.

He raised his hand and his voice once more,  
>And all the world overturned in war.<br>And when the last of those fires let fall,  
>There was no lord in the world at all.<br>"Go rebuild now," the old god said,  
>"Feed the living and bury the dead,<br>And remember this when you speak of war,  
>And think upon what is worth fighting for."<p>

The last chorus ended the song, and after a hefty swig from her complimentary ale while the audience clapped and cheered her on, the singer started in on a lighter tune the sailors around them enjoyed just as much as the first. It was only then that Hawke glanced over at Anders and her concentration on the entertainment was broken.

Scowling and looking at nothing in particular, the blonde apostate was completely lost in thought. It wasn't until the performance was over and they were making their way back to Hightown that Hawke's verbal and occasionally physical prodding produced something akin to a response.

"That was borderline heretical, you know," it wasn't merely an observation, but at least the door to Anders' mind had opened a crack.

"What, my poking you, or the first song from that bard?" Hawke couldn't help but poke fun at the fact he hadn't paid much attention past the first bit of the evening, "Since you were completely off in your own little world after that one."

"Huh?" Anders looked confused for a moment. "The song. I'm sure she would have been arrested on the spot if there had been any templars in the audience."

"I doubt her fans would have let them," Hawke chuckled, "Besides, I don't think she cared how heretical her song might have sounded. Rivainis seem to be like that."

"Or maybe that's what she was aiming for," Anders mused.

"Something special about that song, I take it?"

"It was . . . profound." Anders smiled softly, a rare enough occurrence nowadays, but he looked in her eyes as he did so. Hawke had to suppress the sudden urge to wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him forcefully there in the street. "I . . . identified with it. And I think I got the message. That minstrel is someone who knows what it is to fight for a reason." He rearranged the fur on one side of her armor. To look at her, one would never suspect the sheer destructive magical mayhem the half-armored woman could do.

Hawke looked down, gently taking his hand with her own and brushing her fingers along it, as though it was the most precious trinket in the whole of her Hightown mansion. "I think I know what you mean."

Two apostates, standing in the street.

Each only one of the other's reasons for fighting.

_AN: Never done a song fic before, and I tend not to read them, so I put a song in a fic instead. The song involved is "The Sun is Also a Warrior" by Leslie Fish (c) 1986. Look up her stuff, if you haven't heard of her before. She's amazing! This song is on the album Chickasaw Mountain which you can find nowadays at Prometheus Music._


	6. Mice in the Fade

Disclaimer: Dragon Age and its characters are not mine.

Prompt #6: Delirious

**Mice in the Fade**

* * *

><p>Anders wasn't sure what woke him. It was difficult for him to remember what made sounds besides himself. Or Mr. Wiggums.<p>

He smiled at the cat curled beside him on his pillow. It had been so long since the young mage had even slept on this bed, let alone enjoyed any sort of company in it. He was honestly touched that the scraggly orange tabby had decided to follow him up from the dungeons to the semi-open suite he shared with three other mages and stroked the cat in appreciation. Mr. Wiggums purred and stretched, waking up slightly as the mage shifted on the mattress to take stock of his surroundings.

As he yawned, Anders realized he was the only one here and briefly wondered how long he'd been asleep. Sound recognition wasn't the only thing he'd lost in his year of solitary; his sense of time was completely shot as well. He'd barely gotten a bath and a shave before relief and exhaustion had overtaken him in equal measure, planting himself face-first on his near-forgotten bed. The sun was a myth to him as well as the idea of passing hours it brought with it. Minutes? Hours? Days, even? None of it held any meaning for him now, and he could barely imagine a time when it had.

Mr. Wiggums meowed at his feet, bringing him back to the present, making him realize he'd been standing in the middle of a room devoid of life except for himself and a cat, and the thought made him shiver. The cat yowled more insistently.

"Oh, I suppose you want food, don't you?" Anders' own stomach growled in response, "I suppose I could use some, too. Come on, let's go to the dining hall and see if it's lunchtime or something."

The mage stepped into the hallway, almost exulting in the creak of the door's hinges, and the smile was still plastered on his face when he looked up to see four templars staring at him from down the hallway.

"Uh, evening, sers," Anders made real effort to make the greeting sound cheerful, though he only felt trepidation, "can you tell me what time it is? I'm rather hungry, and I hope the dining hall is . . ." he trailed off as one templar turned to his cronies and appeared to discuss something in a whisper.

"You're not fooling us, maleficar!" growled one as he pulled his sword.

"He must be a hunger demon," said another.

"Wait, what?" Anders started to protest. It was like one of his worst dreams come true.

"You'll not feast on our souls, you monster," the third one snarled, "Nerris, you take care of his demonic familiar."

"Isn't a man allowed to _eat_ anymore—" he was cut off as one of the templars cleared the distance to him and slammed him into the wall. All his breath was knocked from his lungs, and he struggled to breathe for a second as he felt his mana start to drain rapidly.

It was a dream. It had to be. He was still asleep and in the Fade, a nightmare. A very _real_ nightmare . . .

One of the templars reached down to pick up Mr. Wiggums, but as the cat skittered out of reach, all the templar could grab was his tail. "Don't," Anders tried to warn, even though the metal gauntlets would be more than proof against tiny feline claws, "He hates it when you pull—"

The cat's yowl of distress quickly metamorphosed into an infuriated roar as the cat caught fire in the templar's hands and started to grow in size. The templar's whole arm became engulfed in flame, and the sickening stench of burning meat and leather filled the hallway as the tiny form grew to tower over the other knights.

So _that's _what human screams sounded like. He'd forgotten.

"—his tail," Anders finished weakly.

Fiery talons slashed out at the templar who'd lost his arm, and he suddenly missed his head as well. The two other templars fared better, the one who'd drawn his sword managing to distract the demon while the other readied his own. The first managed to smite the demon mid-swipe, but the stunning effect didn't last long. It roared and struck at the offender again, slicing through his readied shield like butter before cutting open his thigh. Admirably enough, the templar stabbed his sword into the demon's side before another transverse swipe relieved him of his throat.

The next templar stood staring at the monster before him, sword arm shaking as his comrade's blade turned into a pool of molten metal at the creature's . . . feet. "What are you waiting for, Willem?" the templar pinning Anders shouted, "Smite it!"

The other templar shook himself, briefly nodding to his commander, but it was too late. The demon was already disappearing quickly into the floor. When it was gone, the templar visibly relaxed. "I guess we drove him off?"

A pool of fire began to open a pace behind the knight.

"You fool, behind you!" shouted the commander, but it was too late. One fiery talon pierced the knight's breastplate and lifted him a meter in the air. Bubbling blood escaped the hapless knight's lips as he dropped his shield to turn his sword in his grip, stabing backwards into the beast. The blind blows struck home, though, and the demon roared as it shook its prize side to side viciously, finally relinquishing the body as it smashed into the wall with a sickening crunch and clatter.

The commander shook off his shock from where he was crushing Anders' ribs into the wall, finally charging the demon where it waited, crouched in anticipation, and took matters into his own hands. He let loose his own feral battlecry as he smote the demon from two steps away, following through with a vicious slash along the creature's torso. The next slash removed its right arm, and a shield bash knocked it backwards a few paces. Before the demon had a chance to recover, the templar finished it off with a series of pummels to its head area before it fell over and collapsed into the floor, leaving behind a tiny, mangled corpse of ragged orange fur.

Anders had the grace to be sick on an untouched portion of the floor instead of himself.

"Are you happy with yourself?" the only remaining templar approached, breathing heavily from fear and exertions, "Turning against your protectors and your own in the name of 'freedom?' You disgust me, maleficar."

Out of the corner of his eye, Anders saw the tip of the knight's sword raise. He couldn't raise his head. He could barely move, let alone defend himself. His mana was utterly gone, drained, his only friend a scorched pile of fur. The mage waited for the final blow to come, the one that would kill him in this nightmare and wake him up in his dark, dank, solitary cell. The silence and certain solitude almost seemed like bliss right now.

When he heard the gurgle above him, he found the strength to glance up and see the templar twitching in place. His falling corpse revealed Anders' savior, making him wish he could wretch all over again.

A mass of flesh bleeding out of what were once mage robes walked toward him in the hallway. A face was barely recognizable atop the pile of misplaced, bubbly skin and sinew, but he was afraid to recognize it. The small weighted clasp at the hem of the robe was enough to tell him who he might once have been looking at.

* * *

><p>"And who do we have here?" the thing that once had been Uldred fairly purred to his minion, "A new convert, perhaps?"<p>

The abomination bowed slightly and left its blonde, bound offering before its master.

"Now, let me see," the man-shaped demon gestured, and unseen forces caused Anders to float upwards for inspection. "There is much potential in this one. Tell me, mage, what is it you want?"

The mage mumbled something that the demon only caught part of. It browsed through its vessel's memories, but could not find anyone named "Mr. Wiggums." Oh well, a mortal mage's desires didn't have to make sense, let alone ones who wanted to ask a nonexistent person "why."

"I can give you everything you desire," the being of pride purred to the blonde mage conspiratorially, "Just do as I ask, become complete . . ."

Anders laughed. The sound was throaty and slightly . . . unhinged. "Sorry, Uldred was never my type."

The demon snarled behind his human face, "Delirious." He couldn't imagine another mage laughing at such an excellent offer, or Uldred. Harsher measures would have to be tried, but not now. Later. First, he needed more minions. "He is of no use to me like this." Another gesture sent the discarded mage tumbling across the Harrowing Chamber where he slid to a stop inches from a pillar.

"Bring me another."


	7. Sandwiches

Disclaimer: Dragon Age is property of Bioware, not me.

Prompt #7: Leave

**Sandwiches**

* * *

><p>"Want a sandwich?"<p>

Anders smirked and tilted his head at her. His smile was one of the things that had always thrilled her about him. He didn't do so often, and that was one of the many things about the world that Hawke was determined to change. Half the things she said were formulated to make him smile, though their actual impact on other people in the area sometimes left something to be desired. "You will be an inspiration to generations of romantic poets."

"Only if someone tells Varric about that line," Hawke grinned wickedly, "and _I_ don't kiss and tell."

"I hardly think what we just managed classifies only as kissing . . ."

"Well, if I told anyone about _that_ part, I'd never be able to keep you to myself, would I?" she feigned seriousness, "You know how selfish I am. I could never share _this_," she grabbed his molting collar and pulled him closer, their noses almost touching, "with anyone."

Still fairly new to allowing this closeness, Anders was momentarily stunned by her proximity, and Hawke smiled as she felt his hot breath hitch in his chest and warm her cheek.

"Seriously, if they were giving out awards for performance, I'm sure you'd win first prize," she breathed tantalizingly, not quite close enough to brush his lips with her own as she spoke. When he leaned forward to attempt their capture with his, she pulled back tauntingly, just out of reach.

Undeterred, Anders quickly cupped her face and claimed her mouth passionately. When they finally parted for breath, Hawke could feel the smile still on his lips, "You're not so bad, yourself."

"Mmh," she murmured noncommittally, even warmed as she was by the compliment, "I wasn't kidding about that sandwich, though. I'm starving! How about you?"

He suddenly shifted uncomfortably, "I wouldn't want to impose . . ."

Hawke raised an eyebrow, "Anders, I'm rich. I have food. Impose away. And before you feed me any silly line about not deserving it, yes, you do. You helped me get this far, among other things. Besides, everyone deserves to eat."

Anders clicked his jaw shut and just stared at her for a second.

"So, are you hungry or not?"

"Ravenous," he finally decided.

Hawke smiled in relief, "Good. Now, come along, my pretty blonde hobo, and I'll take you to the kitchen where you can eat me out of house and home. Take of your coat and stay awhile longer, while you're at it," she teased.

His cheeks colored a little, but he followed her suggestion, draping his heavy coat over her desk chair before joining her by the door. How he'd managed to get dressed so fast after everything still baffled her, but she chalked it up to practice. They were probably the most complicated mage robes she'd seen on anyone who wasn't a Tevinter slaver. She thought she might ask him about it someday if she ever found herself interested in bondage.

Anders followed her closely down the stairs, but Hawke wondered if it was his present body heat she felt on her back or the recent memory of it.

When they reached the kitchen, she opened the larder to pick out some meat, cheese, and that day's leftover bread. While Hawke knew her way around this kitchen in the physical sense, her culinary skills were mostly limited to exactly what she was doing now: making sandwiches. While not raised to cook, her mother didn't perform poorly in the kitchen, but Hawke was still glad she'd found a cook after she'd bought the estate. There was only so much cabbage and stew she could stand.

She set the meal components on the table and didn't miss Anders' wolfish stare. She was tempted to keep the materials in hand to move them about and watch as his eyes tracked them, but decided not to be that cruel right now. Food was her priority, too, at the moment. While she prepared to cut her loaf into slices, he cut his down its length and started cramming meat and cheese into the two halves as if it might all vanish if he waited. The sight made Hawke pause to watch, momentarily forgetting her own hunger as he proceeded to scarf down the huge sandwich with gusto. When he was done, he reached to the bread she still held under one hand, bread knife raised to make the first slice, and snatched it from under her fingers to start the process all over again before he suddenly realized what he was doing.

Anders started to bluster an apology, but Hawke chuckled with a smile and waved it away, "Oh go ahead. I'll just get another loaf, and once I have my sandwich, you can have the rest of it, ok?" She gave him an appraising look up and down as if seeing him for the first time, "How do you fit that all in, anyway?"

"A chronically empty stomach and a high metabolism," Anders answered almost evasively, "You're sure you don't mind?"

"Like I said, impose all you like," she wiggled her eyebrows at him suggestively, and he didn't miss the hint, watching her swing her hips on the way to the larder as his hands seemed to automatically put together the meal before him.

Hawke actually had the grace to get a plate and sit down at the table with her sandwich, which Anders followed her lead with on his third. In spite of all the eating he was doing, she could tell something was eating _him_.

"So, you really mean what you've been saying about, you know, imposing?" Anders asked uncomfortably once her sandwich was done.

"Of course," she smiled and covered his hand with hers on the table.

"Well, the templars were sniffing around my place yesterday . . . I might not be safe there much longer. I know we haven't been together long, but with all you've been saying—"

"Wait, are you asking to move in with me? Way to kill the romance," Hawke quipped lightly, smirking.

"If you _want_ to stumble over all the drunks in Darktown just to see me every night, I'm sure we could arrange that," she could tell he was almost trying to be serious, but the quirk at the corner of his mouth gave him away, "but I would also repay such generosity in the best way I knew how."

"Hmm, I think I may have a use for such gratitude," she hadn't realized how close she'd gotten to him as he defended his case, but only a little farther and she'd be in his lap. She decided to remedy that situation.

"So is that a yes?" Anders asked breathily when their lips parted again.

"The drunks would never get any sleep if it wasn't," she purred at him, "But that story about the templars concerns me. You should lie low for a few days, imposing as it may be . . ."

"Hmm, maybe you should lie low, too. Those pesky templars are everywhere."

"My thoughts exactly."

* * *

><p>Two days later, Hawke woke to being shaken none-too-gently by the shoulder. She blearily opened her eyes only to meet teasing amber eyes surrounded in brown skin and arching eyebrows.<p>

"Isabella?" she muttered groggily, "Did I make it to the Hanged Man?" A quick glance told her this was not the case. It was still her bedroom. One place that Isabella certainly wasn't allowed while Hawke was asleep. She sighed, "Isabella, what are you doing here?"

"Well, nobody's seen Anders in a few days, or you for that matter, but it would seem those problems are related," she explained with a mischievous smirk, shooting an appraising glance behind Hawke's modestly covered body, "The darktowners are starting to get concerned. Don't worry, I'll tell them he's _safe_." Isabella winked.

Hawke sighed, lowering her voice, even though such commotion probably wouldn't wake Anders if it hadn't already. "Did you have to wake me up before dawn to tell me that?"

"No, but I had to ask," the pirate bit her lip anxiously, "Can I join you two next time?"

Open-minded as Hawke may have been to her friend's views, she still didn't share them. She wasn't going to share _him._ She'd had partners before, but not like Anders. It might not have been love, but it _was_ personal. "I think you should leave, Isabella."

"But he does that lightning thing! Did he teach it to you? Oh, two of those at once—"

Hawke's cheeks were burning in spite of herself. "Get out."

"But—"

"_Now," _Hawke hissed, punctuating her point by forming crackling lightning in one hand, and Isabella was suddenly gone through whatever entrance she'd found.

Suddenly, she felt an arm snake around her middle and perpetual stubble nuzzle her shoulder. "Have I told you I love you?" Anders murmured sleepily.

Hawke smiled. "Not today, but there's no bad time to start."


	8. Façade

Disclaimer: Recognizable stuff isn't mine. I'm just playing with it.

Prompt #8: Languid

**Façade**

* * *

><p>Anders didn't know how long it had been since he'd last moved. Nearly naked, curled under the ratty, scratchy woolen blanket they'd given him, the filthy remains of his clothes acted as a pillow. It was dark. He was shackled with the special chains they used to prevent magic. He may have slept at some point; he didn't know.<p>

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that conserving his energy was a good idea when they might forget to feed him, but in reality, he hadn't moved because there was no point. Scream and shout at the walls, protesting his innocence, moan and pretend some illness so they'd come to see what was wrong? No one would hear. No one would care, especially not the silent sentinels guarding the hallways of the dungeons. They didn't even give the creak of leather and steel a living guard would. Even the air was stale and unmoving, confirming the fact that Anders was as far away from any help he could imagine. Rats had no reason to come here. Even the chains above didn't clink or rattle. The only sounds he heard were ones he made himself, loud and grating in the dark.

Silent, alone. Solitary.

Against all odds, there was a noise outside his cell. He almost thought it was something new in his shallow breathing with how faint it started, but it kept changing and growing louder, as if it was growing closer. Anders only half-listened, as if he was being polite to some foreign storyteller he could only understand half the words of through his accent. It couldn't be relevant to him. Nobody came here heralded by strange noises. Nobody could possibly want to rescue him.

Anders only thought about changing his mind when the crackle and explosion sounded impossibly loud outside the heavy wooden door of his cell. Even more unbelievably, the door swung noisily open on its iron hinges and a familiar figure was silhouetted against the dim light of the hallway.

Anders languidly stared up at the newcomer as his eyes attempted to adjust to the new light.

A familiar voice choked out a familiar series of sounds. "Oh Maker, what have they done to you, Anders? Here, put these on. We're getting out."

The prisoner blinked as he suddenly found a pile of clean clothes at the fingertips of his one exposed hand. Confused, he looked from the clothes to his rescuer and back again. He squinted at the familiar man. "Karl? Is that you?"

It was certainly Karl's voice that answered this time, "Yes. Now hurry, I can't break you out while you're still in rags, can I?"

Anders didn't remember dressing or his shackles being removed, but a heartbeat later he found himself running through the stone corridors of the Tower dungeons a pace behind his old lover. He took a moment to look down at the clothes he'd evidently thrown on and stopped abruptly.

Karl was by his side. "What's wrong?"

"Karl, these are Tevinter robes! Are you crazy? What if someone sees me like this?" He looked up to see the soft smile he remembered in the brown hair and beard he hadn't seen for . . .

When had he last seen Karl?

"As if they'll be any more understanding of our escape if we're wearing normal Circle robes?" It was only then that Anders noticed Karl was dressed exactly like he was, fluffy feathered shoulders, complicated belts, and all. He almost wished he had a mirror handy, because if he looked half as good as Karl did right now, he might make this a habit.

When Anders didn't reply, Karl took his hand and urged him on, "It's just a little farther, love. We'll be out in no time."

Anders looked up into familiar blue eyes, more striking than Karl's had ever been before, nodding silently. He wanted more than anything to get out of here.

The pair ran past charred templar corpses and empty hallways, moldy books and open windows. Cracked statuary greeted them at every corner, the indomitable Tevinter stonework seemed to be crumbling around them. They jumped over Knight-Commander Greagoir's unseeing face as they bounded to the closed door that would lead to the outside world. Ser Rylock, the female templar who'd dragged him back to the circle more than once was propped against the gigantic portal, and the ancient wood could be seen through a gaping hole in her chest.

Anders was about to ask his old lover something, but Karl had already released his hand to move Rylock's body and pull open the double doors. The young mage was dazzled by the bright sunlight and suddenly they were both outside on the opposite shore of Lake Calenhad.

Karl took Anders' hand again, and the blonde mage was startled by the contact. "Don't be afraid, Anders," the older mage said, "I'm giving you your freedom. I ask only one thing in return."

He blinked and looked down at their joined hands before looking into that familiar face once again, "And what's that?"

"Wherever you go, take me with you. We can go anywhere together, just you and me. No templar will ever part us again."

They were alone on the shore, just the two of them. He had seen no mages in the tower on their way through, only templar corpses, though in his addled state of mind, maybe that's all he wanted to see.

"How did you get here, Karl?" Anders wasn't looking at him anymore, but rather at the Tower that had been his prison in the middle of the lake.

"I heard what they did to you. I couldn't let them have you any longer. I love you too much."

The Tower seemed so far away to him now, as if he saw it through a haze. "And what about the other mages?"

"They will be free in time, just like you. Take me with you and we can make it happen, if you want."

The Tower seemed to crumble before his eyes, almost like the remnant of the Imperial Highway to the side. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" a confused note entered Karl's voice, "For what?"

"I'm sorry you're not Karl," Anders closed his eyes and sighed, "I'm sorry this isn't real."

"How can you say that?" the voice sounded pained, and its owner squeezed his hand tightly, holding it up to his chest, "I love you! I'm giving you everything you wanted!"

"Karl didn't love me. He was fond of telling me that you could be a lover without being in love. There's no way he could get out of Kirkwall without consequences for the other mages there, and he never would have put his own freedom before that of other mages, no matter how much he wanted it. I remember we argued about it." Anders smiled to himself. "You even got his eyes wrong. I don't know whose eyes those are, but his were a darker grey."

The young mage tore his face from the fascinating sight of the toppling Tower and looked back to the thing at his side that wasn't Karl. He squeezed its hand comfortingly. "Thank you for the dream, but I can't take your offer. I know I must look like a tempting target, but I rather like my head the way it is, demon-free."

The demon with Karl's face and another's eyes gazed back at him sadly. "We could have been good together, you and I. We could have destroyed the templars, freed Karl, even changed the world."

Anders shook his head. "I'm not interested in changing the world."

"I see." The demon sighed and dropped his hand. "I will not be the last, you know, nor will this be the last time I shall ask."

"My answer won't change," Anders told the image of Karl.

"Everyone has a price," the demon assured before disappearing into the mists of the Fade.


	9. They're Everywhere

Disclaimer: As always, not my characters or setting.

AN: Aveline reminds me so much of my big sister. I love her to death.

Prompt #9: Undone

**They're Everywhere**

* * *

><p>Finally, the high dragon toppled.<p>

Hawke fell to her knees in a mixture of exhaustion and relief, leaning heavily on her staff. Varric's stories would no doubt place her stabbing the dragon through the eye with the pointy end of her staff by this point, but here in the real world, she was faintly impressed she was even still alive. Her mana was completely drained, as drained as the colors from her vision as her eyes unfocused, and she closed them wearily. She wasn't even aware of drifting off until she heard a clatter and felt the rocky ground of the bottom layer of the Bone Pit against her cheek.

It was only then she registered that the sound of battle wasn't completely over. Steel against flesh and a series of guttural chirping noises drew her attention to the complete opposite side of the dead dragon in front of her.

"Hawke, get your ass over here!" Aveline yelled in between wet slaps of her shield against the scaly hide of nearly-forgotten dragonlings, "This is no time for a nap!"

Hawke scrambled blindly for her staff, finally looking around to find it in a direction she hadn't even thought of. She set it upright, trying to climb it in order to stand again, but failed until Varric was at her side, momentarily holding Bianca away and to the right so he could help her up. Leaning on the dwarf, her chest so close to his face as to be awkward under any other circumstances, they stumbled around the massive dragon corpse to get a full view of Aveline fending off three hungry dragonlings.

A few paces beyond her, though, a body lay unmoving, unable to fend off the spawn of the high dragon showing him unhealthy interest.

"Anders!" Hawke would have screamed his name had her voice not been parched and cracked. She forsook Varric's support, newfound adrenaline pumping through her legs as she half ran, half stumbled to his prone form, barely catching herself from falling with her staff. She couldn't even fire a spell at the two dragonlings attempting to chew on him, but two crossbow bolts singing over her head got their attention.

_Good ol' Varric, always thinking ahead._

Hawke skidded to a halt on her knees, tearing the skirt of her already-ruined robes in the process. She didn't have the mana for a revival spell, and it was plain to see he wasn't breathing. Multiple rips and tears in his dusty robes bore evidence to where the dragonlings had tried to savage him, and he was slowly losing blood. His head lolled to the side, mouth slightly open and eyes closed. The staff she'd given him lay a few paces behind, scratched and chewed by lizard teeth, tiny only by comparison to what they could eventually grow into.

Without magic, Hawke didn't know what to do. She'd managed to heal herself and her friends countless times over, but now the fight had exhausted their potions and her mana to the point she was past feeling light-headed. Her head hurt, too, and she suspected the time the dragon's tail had hurled her into a wall had something to do with it. Anders would've known what to do. He was the expert on this sort of thing! He was . . .

Hawke started to hyperventilate.

A loud oath came from behind her, and Aveline was by her side, covered in blood that didn't look like hers, "Maker's mercy, Hawke, revive him already!"

"I-I can't," she managed to choke out, "Mana—" _Oh Maker, please! I can't lose it now, I need to think of something! Crying solves nothing!_

Lucky for her, Aveline was perfectly calm. "Get his robes open," she ordered. Hawke tried to comply, fumbling with the once so-simple catches on the front of his robes, but failed to undo any of them with the way her hands shook so terribly. She wasn't sure if it was the panic, exhaustion, or head trauma that caused it, but it only made her swear and swallow roughly. Her vision blurred.

Aveline coolly shoved the panicking Hawke out of the way, causing the younger woman's eyes to widen in alarm when she pulled out her own dagger. She quickly put it to use cutting open the unconscious man's robes. "Lay his head down straight and keep his airway open. When I tell you to, take a deep breath, seal your mouth around his, and breathe firmly into it. If we can get him breathing on his own, he'll make it through. Don't quit on me now, Hawke. I'm not losing anyone today."

There was just something about Aveline and her no-nonsense attitude that made Hawke jump to her commands, instantly doing as she was told. Later, when she had time to think about it, Hawke would almost swear the guard captain had some sort of mind control powers of her own. Who needed a blood mage when Captain Vallen was around?

It took several tries before her lanky blonde apostate finally coughed into her mouth, and Hawke swore she tasted blood. She sat back and breathed a sigh of relief as she watched his chest rise and fall again. It was only then she noticed the gleam of rusty metal beneath the tattered remains of his robe and tunic. She moved a bit of the filthy material aside to get a better look and found a badly abused short shirt of chainmail beneath. Some links were rusted through, and a few looked as if they'd been torn apart, probably by little dragon teeth, if the one or two yellowy-white fangs still embedded in it were any indicator.

Her brow furrowed in confusion as she took off the outer layer of her nearly useless robe and folded it beneath Anders' head. Since when had Anders ever worn actual armor? She was sometimes surprised by the idea that he was strong enough to wear his heavy coat, much less a chain haubergeon underneath. Surely he would have tired more easily if that was the case? She'd _seen_ him naked. The man just didn't have the muscle for it.

Hawke looked up at Aveline. Her friend had removed some of the stray bandages Anders kept tied around his arms and boots and repurposed them to better use on his still-bleeding wounds. Tying the last one, she almost looked like she wanted to give the younger woman a hug, but noticed where her attention was directed. "He's a smart man. That armor probably saved his life as much as you did just now."

The mage shook her head. "No, you're the one who should get credit here. You stepped in while I was falling apart. I—" Hawke blinked and couldn't stop a tear from escaping her blurry eye, but she hurriedly wiped it away with the back of her hand before it could leave a trail down her dirt-streaked face, "I take back every bad joke I've ever told about you."

Aveline smiled and clasped her shoulder. "I hope some of the ones you've told _to_ me, too."

Hawke snorted out a half-laugh, not even sure what the other half was supposed to be as she smoothed back Anders' hair from his forehead.

She felt a light tap on her other shoulder, looking around quickly to see Varric with an armload of potions, having used a faintly glowing blue one to get her attention. Without even a word of thanks, she snatched up the lyrium potion and chugged it down so fast she almost choked. She felt instantly refreshed and used the first healing spell on herself before continuing down the line.

Varric chuckled, and it wasn't long before he commented on Anders' attire, too. "Huh, Blondie's full of surprises, isn't he?" the dwarf observed, "Maybe he knows some magic way for mages to wear armor? Could come in handy for you, since I saw this lovely piece of armor back in the dragon's hoard that looks just your size, Hawke."

"Just what I need," Hawke seemed to come back to herself just a little more, "more clothes. Mother would be proud."

"Just as long as you get him some new clothes, too," Varric chuckled, "If you go through Hightown with him dressed like _that_, people will _talk_."

Aveline interrupted Hawke's inevitably dirty comeback with a disgusted noise, "Can we just heal him and get out of here?"

Hawke made a deflated noise with her lips, "You are just no fun sometimes."

"And here I thought you'd want to get him back on his feet the fastest."

"Oh, I don't know. I kind of like him like this. Not nearly as moody and maudlin. Plus, the scenery is excellent from this angle. You really should try it."

"You can't stand up, can you?"

"Nope."


	10. Shaken Foundation

Disclaimer: Dragon Age isn't mine.

Prompt # 10: Lies

**Shaken Foundation**

* * *

><p>"There is no potion, is there?"<p>

Anders' head snapped up, wide-eyed for a split second before returning to his usual weariness, head hanging slightly to the right. How could he possibly be surprised she'd caught him in a lie? He had to know he was royally bad at it. He'd been fidgety throughout their entire conversation and wouldn't meet her eyes at first. The latter in itself was cause enough for suspicion and concern, since eye-gazing seemed to be one of his favorite pastimes with her for reasons she couldn't fathom. She could never suppress a blush when he started to describe her "striking" eyes in poetic near-verse, as though he'd practiced it in his head . . . probably for at least three years, if he was to be believed.

Hawke wasn't quite sure what to believe anymore.

She hadn't been suspicious when he'd asked her to meet him in his clinic to speak privately. With Meredith cracking down on all underground mage activities, he was practically the only freedom fighter left in Kirkwall, and her pet apostate was convinced that it was only a matter of time before the templars came after the two of them. Her Hightown estate was too conspicuous to him. It was too obvious both of them would be there, so therefore not a place to discuss something . . . serious.

His clinic, by contrast, was nearly empty at all times. After six years, most of the Fereldan refugees who comprised his patient list had moved up or moved on, understandably getting the hell out of Kirkwall. Anders still kept a cot down here for himself, for when he worked so late that he was too tired to climb through the mess of tunnels that were her lower cellar. He'd done that quite a lot lately (the last week, in fact), and in spite of his insistence that his patients needed him, Hawke just didn't see the evidence of it.

She did recognize, however, that even the closest of couples needed time away from each other on occasion. Her mother and father had taught her that much about serious relationships before she was even old enough to like boys. Hawke figured Anders' need to be alone would pass, but it didn't stop her from running her hand over the cool sheets on his side of her bed at night.

Her bed. He slept in _her_ bed. Regularly enough that his absence was noted. The thought still sent shivers of pleasure down her spine on occasion. Both the idea that after the kind of childhood she had, _she_ owned so many things and that she had _him_ there, too.

She knew the discussion wasn't something about the two of them. He probably would have just saved an apology for pillow talk. When he'd claimed he had a potion to separate himself from Justice all figured out, she was surprised, but if it wouldn't harm either and that was really what he wanted . . .

Hawke had to admit that she probably owed that spirit a great deal where her love-life was concerned. From what she understood of Anders' stories of his previous life, he probably would have tried to jump her from the moment he laid eyes on her. Sure, they probably would have had an _amazing_ one-night stand, but they would have moved their separate ways shortly thereafter, Deep Roads maps given for free. If he'd stayed in Kirkwall long enough for them to meet, anyway.

Instead, she met a handsome, opinionated, slightly haunted mage who very much wanted to be with her but held himself back, a man who smiled at her flirtatious advances until he abruptly stopped himself and flat out told her it was a bad idea. She guessed it was those smiles stolen out of the wreckage of a shitty life plus the refusal that kept her going. Hawke liked keeping people happy, telling bad jokes, being everyone's friend. She'd practically made a business off it, in fact. Of course she wasn't always successful (trying to keep her little brother happy was always a lost cause), but Anders was a challenge she figured she could manage.

Flirts were the easiest, of course. They showed him that he was liked, wanted, and welcome in more ways than one and always made him smile, at least for a little while. Every refusal filled her with a little more desire and disappointment in equal measure (and in her own strange logic, encouragement), but she admired his willpower. When it finally snapped, the unconscious wait had proven well worth it.

She sometimes missed those tortured faces he made whenever he'd stop himself, though. Those were _adorable_.

Justice had held him back from her long enough for her to truly want him as part of her life, to see him as something more than a pretty face to share one night with. Justice kept him in Kirkwall to fight for an admirable cause that hit incredibly close to home. Justice made him unafraid to stand up and mouth off to Knight-Commanders and pithy Tevinter ex-slave elves. Justice also made him terrified of himself sometimes, but she was there to soothe those fears away. It seemed the least she could do. She really did owe Justice a lot, for Anders' sake and her own.

But if separating man from spirit was what he—no _they _wanted . . .

She wasn't familiar with Tevinter potion ingredients and only knew a smattering of Arcanum gleaned from her father's sparse teachings on the subject, but she was fairly certain the disgusting components would be enough to drive anyone away, corporeal or no. Yet when they returned to his clinic and there was still something else to do, this time involving the Chantry . . .

"No, I lied. There is no potion," he said it as if he'd made a decision, and Hawke knew from experience that when he made up his mind, it took a long time to change it, "but this isn't about me and Justice. It never was."

Hawke felt a small measure of relief mixed with confusion and a pang of hurt. "Then why lie to me about it? You should know me better than that by now."

Anders' face struggled to remain impassive. "I-," his forehead creased in thought, "You wouldn't thank me if I told you. Just know that what I do, I do for all mages, not just the ones here in Kirkwall. Compared to that, one lie has little meaning. Help me distract the Grand Cleric. If you truly love me, you'll trust me."

Hawke wasn't sure if she truly did, not right now. The sting of betrayal was growing into an ache somewhere around her heart. "I care for you, Anders, but that doesn't mean I agree with everything you say. I don't trust blindly. Please, tell me what's going on." That was her, always asking as many dumb questions as possible, but she always needed to know what she was getting in to before jumping in with both feet anyway.

His face hardened in frustration, verging on anger. It was an emotion she'd only rarely seen directed at her, from him at least. "You can't claim to love me and then turn on me now. I _am_ the cause of mages. There's nothing else inside me." He said it with such conviction that Hawke nearly believed he thought that way, but she knew it was a lie. _Another one. He's racking them up today._ She almost called him on it, but his brown eyes locked with hers, not quite the glare he used for slavers, templars, and Fenris, yet still firm and unyielding. Hawke briefly wondered how much of Justice truly showed in Anders' behavior and action and how much of which person had brought her to his arms in the first place. How much had he been lying about who he was as long as she'd known him?

Maybe it didn't matter, after all.

"Fine, Anders," Hawke backed down, and the action felt foreign. Usually it was he who caved to her arguments, not the other way around, but this time he played dirty. "I'll give you my help, but I won't forget what you did to get it."

Anders almost sighed in relief, looking down and away from her again before his gaze returned to her face. "Thank you, love. I promise: whatever happens, it will fall on my head alone."

She wondered if that would turn out to be a lie as well.

When she returned to the clinic to see him dressed in new black robes and hear another eloquent declaration of love among disturbing dialogue, she wondered if that wasn't the biggest lie of all.


	11. Management

Disclaimer: Dragon Age and its characters aren't mine.

Prompt # 11: Disaster

**Management**

* * *

><p>Calmahsir Surana looked upon the scene of a massacre. No, it was worse than that. It was more like a bloody abattoir.<p>

The Grey Warden patrol had apparently made camp in a clearing not too far from a local town, but the surrounding forest was barely recognizable as such now. The once majestic trees at this end of the Knotwood Hills were barely recognizable, little more than charred stumps by this point. Among the charcoal lay bodies, tents, molten metal of all types . . . Prominent among the debris was silverite, parts recognizable from the armor he had commissioned from Wade for all his charges. There was far too much silverite armor for one patrol, however, and an upturned breastplate bearing the flaming Sword of Mercy still surrounding a charred carcass told him who the rest of the armor belonged to.

Templars.

Even several days removed from the event, the stench was excrutiating, but Surana had smelled worse. Not even securing a handkerchief over his nose, the elf dismounted his horse to inspect the mess, and that was when Stroud spoke.

"What do you make of this, Commander Surana?" His orlesian accent was heavy and grated on Surana's nerves. He wasn't quite old enough to share the earlier Fereldan generation's hatred of Orlais, but with his own observations during the Blight and after, and stories from Loghain, whenever Stroud opened his mouth, it set the Hero of Ferelden's teeth on edge.

It didn't help that his opinion of mages, let alone elves, was less than charitable, and he did little to hide it. Surana had always been gifted at reading people, but it didn't take his impressive skill to know that his mustachioed replacement barely tolerated him. When he'd arrived at the keep, Stroud had almost ordered Surana to get him a drink before he realized who he was talking to.

Therefore, Surana took his sweet time in answering Stroud's question. The rest of the team they'd brought to investigate the missing patrol was already picking over the perimeter, so Surana gravitated toward the apparent middle of the conflagration.

Oddly enough, the area here was barely touched, as if the blaze of the tent had protected its insides from the rest of the fire to some degree. Here there was a slightly charred blanket and a scattering of belongings, as if someone had scooped things into a bag in a hurry. There were still valuables lying among the bodies closer to the perimeter, so it was unlikely this was the work of a thief. No, this was someone of the patrol, spooked and fleeing. _Hmm,_ he thought to himself, _a surviving witness could be invaluable._

It was then that a scrap of color caught his eye near the closest templar body. He knelt to investigate, fullplate and leather creaking from the unaccustomed position, and found something odd. The piece of bloodstained knitting looked familiar, a much-loved length of drab green and orange wool, cut roughly as if with the edge of a sword that pierced more than just the knitting. Surana glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then surreptitiously bit his lip to draw his own blood and concentrated on the dried, bloody cloth. The blood certainly carried the taint and more than a hint of very powerful magic. His eyes flew open in momentary shock and concern he was glad nobody saw as he added everything together.

_Oh shit. Anders._

Surana quickly masked his emotions again, but as he rose, his eyes darted around for a blonde body, hoping against hope that the mage, one of his first recruits, was a victim and not a cause.

This devastation was far too much for one person on its own. Even a single emissary or disciple couldn't have caused this sort of carnage single-handedly, and there was no evidence that a darkspawn raiding party had caught them. They had been taken by surprise, some bodies torn open bluntly, as if with human hands, some with teeth marks that looked eerily human, and one Warden whose head had been neatly ripped off. Coupled with the presence of templars and the _reek_ of the Fade in the place even days later left Surana with only one conclusion:

Abomination.

Except that wasn't quite right, either. He'd seen the results of abominations before, the . . . residue they left from their transformations and what they did to their victims. All of it was absent. Even the teeth marks were too human. Abominations irreparably changed their forms upon possession, possibly because the demon taking over didn't understand that it couldn't change its form at will anymore. Most somehow folded a flap of skin over their host's mouth, preventing bite marks of this type entirely, even if the teeth had remained miraculously intact.

Nothing quite added up, but Commander Surana had an idea of who would know . . . and a feeling that he never would. Knowing the blonde mage's proclivity for hiding and escaping, he knew he'd never see Anders again. If he wasn't among the dead, it was entirely likely that he'd be blamed, and not even a Grey Warden mage would be trusted anymore. The idea that mages could walk free in society would be pushed back another hundred years. Not an idea he could afford for his own vision of the future.

Perhaps it would be best for everyone if Anders stayed missing and unconnected to this . . . disaster.

This would have to be played very carefully.

"Do you have the duty roster for this patrol?" Surana asked calmly when he remounted his horse, commented toward Stroud.

"Of course, ser," the orlesian commander nodded and reached into his pack, handing the parchment with his ostentatious handwriting to the elven hero. Surana only recognized a few of the names, mostly new recruits from just before he'd left to take care of some business in the Deep Roads a few months ago. Only Anders' name did he know well. By rights, he should have been at the top of this list, the most senior warden among the lot, but that position was occupied by one of the newer recruits.

_Smug, biased, racist, mage-hating, orlesian bastard._

When Surana had announced his plans to set off for the Deep Roads a few months ago, several of his recruits had volunteered to accompany him, but in light of Jerrik Dace's entreaty for secrecy, had declined any assistance. The Wardens had sent over another commander from Orlais to take over in his stead, and he left without considering what sort of person he was leaving in charge. Only when he returned to the Keep and obtained a report from Garevel did he realize how big an oversight he'd made. His carefully crafted team was no more. Oghren was the first to transfer away, since Stroud's views on excessive drinking were quickly established. Around the same time, Velanna had disappeared mysteriously in the Deep Roads. Following that, Nathaniel transferred to the Free Marches, dissatisfied with Stroud's attitude about Velanna's disappearance and his constant haranguing about Nathaniel's father. Sigrun had been uncharacteristically quiet since Surana left and vanished with no explanation a week after Nathaniel. Justice had dropped dead on the doorstep of his host's wife not long ago. And Anders had been saddled with some holier-than-thou recruit named Rolan, ordered to take him everywhere. It was rumored that he kept far too close an eye on the mage for simple prejudice, and the templars had stopped complaining as soon as he survived his Joining.

Surana could guess what had happened. The name was right there below Anders'.

"Is there a problem, Commander Surana?" Stroud finally asked after the elf had spent ten minutes staring at the same page.

"Was Rolan a templar, Stroud?"

The heavily mustachioed man bristled and opened his mouth to protest or argue semantics, but Surana stopped him with a gesture. "Did I, or did I not leave specific orders to have any templar-trained recruits kept fifty feet away from Anders at all times?"

Stroud attempted to scoff, "Any templar could hold his own against that sorry excuse for—"

"For _his_ safety, not theirs," Surana continued dispassionately, "Considering that I know what a templar can do to a mage from first-hand experience, do you think I particularly care about _their_ wellbeing against a single mage? Anyone should be allowed to strike back to protect himself."

Stroud swallowed.

"You have countermanded orders I specifically set in place before my _temporary_ departure, alienated the senior wardens I left in place, caused unrest in the local nobility through idiotic ruling, and put warden patrols under unnecessary danger by mere group composition. You have absolutely no sense for the mental health and wellbeing of those under your command." Surana delivered his list of Stroud's inadequacies without raising his voice in the slightest. Not even one of the escorts could hear what passed between the two commanders. "As far as I am concerned, this disaster is your fault. I will see you demoted and transferred before the day is through."

Stroud had gone pale. "But, you can't—"

"The Void, I can't. I'm the Hero of Ferelden, and the king and queen both owe their positions to me. Be thankful I don't make it an execution."

In the days that followed Stroud's departure for Ansburg, Commander Surana finalized the official account of the incident. He expertly crafted the story of a captured darkspawn Disciple emissary who took the distracting arrival of a templar patrol as an opportunity to go berserk. Only the fates of the wardens with family were officially reported to Weisshaupt. If anyone asked, Anders' body was not recoverable, concise language for anything from an unrecognizable corpse to transformation into a ghoulish slave.

When he set his pen down, Surana vainly hoped that his friend was still alive and whole somewhere, and that he'd appreciate the misdirection someday.


End file.
